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While she was getting ready for bed, I rushed around the room, shoving my dirty clothes into the hamper in the corner and pulling the blankets into place on the bed.
I know she’s tired because she doesn’t put up any sort of fight, just crawls obediently into bed and flops down on her back.
I sit back on the edge of the mattress next to her. “Tell me where it hurts.”
Her eyes are closed. “Everywhere.”
She looks so cute.
“I’m happy to slather every inch of you, but this will work better if you give me some specifics.”
Natalie opens one eye. “Slather what?”
I hold up my little jar of salve. “Trust me, this will help.”
She lifts her arms. “My elbows and wrists hurt.”
I unscrew the jar and scoop out a little of the thick substance.
Using the tip of my finger, I rub some around her elbow, making sure to be gentle, seeing the start of a bruise on the back of her arm. Then I move to her wrist before repeating the process on the other arm.
“Knees?” I ask, scooting down the bed.
Natalie nods. “Those are the worst. And my feet.” She lets out a deep breath when I start to apply the salve to her knees. “What about you?”
“What about me?” I scoop out a little more.
“How’s your shoulder?”
It takes me a second to remember that I hurt it during that Vegas game. “It’s good as new.”
Her little huff is adorable. “Sure it is, Mr. Muscles.”
I grin at her use of that nickname.
And I grin even more when I start to massage the salve onto her foot, and she falls asleep.
Chapter 92
Natalie
“Do I have to?”I hate myself a little for how whiney I sound. But I’m stressing out.
I have no idea what to expect, and since I have to leave town tomorrow for work, I really just want to stay here and rot on the couch with Luke. Like we did yesterday.
“Sorry.” My unapologetic husband lies. “All the wives are doing it.”
I narrow my eyes at him, then hold my arms out. “Well, do I at least look okay?”
Luke straightens from pulling on his shoes and walks to me. “Natalie, you look beautiful. Perfect for a brunch at home with the girls.” He sets his hands on my cheeks. “Or maybe you’re super overdressed. I have no idea.”
I stare at him. “How do you not get punched more?”
He barks out a laugh, then kisses me on the lips and steps back.
I grip the edges of my knitted cardigan.
Why don’t invites come with a dress code?
